I stared at him.
He continued.
“And Sophie always wears hand-me-down clothes. They’re nice. But I wanted something that was only hers.”
Seven years old.
That was all he was.
Seven.
And somehow he had noticed something adults had trained themselves not to see.
I hugged him.
“We’re giving Sophie the dress,” I said.
His face lit up.
“But tomorrow, we are also going to talk about honesty.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m putting money back into your savings.”
“But—”
“No argument.”
He sighed dramatically.
Then he asked, “Can I at least wrap it myself?”
I should have said no.
I spent twenty minutes the next morning fixing what looked like a red-paper burrito.
But Sophie didn’t care about the wrapping.
What she did when she saw the dress would eventually spread farther than any of us could have imagined.
PART 4 — THE RED DRESS
Sophie’s birthday party consisted of six folding chairs, grocery-store cupcakes, a bowl of chips, bubbles, and a crooked banner that said:
